Howl
by Runawaymetaphor
Summary: It isn't so much that B'Elanna's day has already been bad, prior to meeting Janeway in the shuttle bay...
1. I

**Author's Note: **For Alpha, as promised. . . Mostly

* * *

"_I long for the raised voice, the howl of rage or love."_

-Leslie Fiedler

* * *

**Howl**

**I.**

_Present_

"The wind is changing," B'Elanna says, standing on her tippy toes, and looking down, into the valley that contains their battered runabout.

It's the first thing Torres has said in more than three hours, so Janeway should be grateful for an end to the brooding silence.

And maybe, eventually, the Captain would have been. Were it not for what comes next.

"I'll take being wrong," Janeway shrugs, "if it means not losing the Delta Flyer."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," the engineer rejoins, bitterness apparent. "The wind has shifted the fire in our direction. . . Now it's coming _toward _us."

And though Janeway's surely made more costly mistakes, she certainly can't recall any that she regrets more- watching Torres collect their equipment with a muttered curse that much be Klingon for 'I told you so'.

. . . . .

_Ten Hours Earlier_

It isn't so much that B'Elanna's day has already been bad, prior to meeting Janeway in the shuttle bay. Rather, it's that anything that could have gone wrong _had _gone wrong, culminating in an afternoon the ship's Chief Conn Officer would have termed 'shit-tastic'.

And now, of course – _of course_– Tom isn't here to say good-bye to her.

"Where are you?" she demands into her comm badge, standing outside his quarters.

"_I got stuck pulling another two hours in Sickbay," _Tom informs her, dripping with apology.

"In Sickbay? _Why?_"

The question comes out harsher than it should, given that this obviously isn't Tom's fault. It certainly isn't as if he'd rather be pulling a long shift than seeing her, especially as he's the one who's made it a ritual to kiss good-bye before away missions.

If she's taking this all out on him now, it's partly her bad day, and partly because she still doesn't know what to do with all of these feelings she has for him.

It's been indescribably joyous to be this in love- to care about another person so much that her breath catches in her throat at the simplest, most innocent touch. But it's also terrifying; disorienting that she could be so disappointed at not being be able to see him for only a moment. To say nothing of the nausea-inducing panic she gets when considering what it would be like to lose him altogether.

"_I'm really, really, sorry, Bee," _Tom says, now sounding unabashedly pathetic. _"I'll make it up to you when you get back. But this was Captain's orders."_

_Captain's orders, _B'Elanna thinks bitterly. _Of course. _

"Right," she mutters, her mood turning even darker.

"_Bee?"_

"It's fine, Tom," she shoots back, not sounding at all convincing. But then she takes a breath, realizes how unfair she's being. "I expect dinner," she says, more teasingly. "Wine, too."

"Breakfast?"

It's the kind of thing only Tom Paris would ask over a comm line. Reflexively, B'Elanna checks the empty corridor for anyone in earshot, heat rising to her face.

"Maybe. If you're lucky," she allows, feeling herself start to smirk.

"_Yes, ma'am."_

Closing the line, B'Elanna huffs.

She really wishes Tom wouldn't call her that.

. . . . .

"You're late," Janeway says, as B'Elanna slides into her seat inside the Delta Flyer. And though it's a neutral observation rather than an admonishment, the engineer's lips press into thin, thin line.

The mission isn't anything extraordinary. Just a routine scouting mission to an ore-rich planet, and home in time for dinner. Depending on what they find, _Voyager_ will spend the next two to six days in orbit, mining what they need.

It's the kind of mission Torres likes going on herself, despite that any number of people under her are more than qualified.

Adding in the Captain is plain overkill. On, oh, so many levels.

"Setting in coordinates for a low orbit above the southern-most hemisphere," Janeway announces, an hour after she's given up making small talk with B'Elanna. The Captain isn't sure what's going on with the Chief today, but obviously it's _something._

They have another fifteen minutes of maneuvering to get in orbit, and then three odd hours of scanning.

It only takes twenty minutes before Janeway breaks, oddly uncomfortable with the silence.

"I'm going to replicate some coffee. Care for any?"

"No."

Torres' response is practically a growl, and Janeway sits back down, folding her arms in front of her chest.

"Alright, Lieutenant. Out with it."

"Come again?"

"What's going on? What's happened to get you so . . .?" Janeway finishes the question with a vague hand gesture that Torres, uncharitably or not, mentally fills in as 'Klingon.'

"It's just. . ." B'Elanna begins, trying to contain the rage welling up within her. "It's been a long day."

"They're all long days," Janeway says, sounding almost patient. "What what was it about today?"

It would be easy to be vague or deflect to work; talk about the lack of sleep lately, the power fluctuations on deck three she still can't track down, the small accident that sent Vorick to Sickbay and left her down two skilled hands.

But thinking about her horrific, unending day and staring into Janeway's damn 'trust me, confide me' eyes, all of that flies out the window. B'Elanna thinks of but one thing.

_I'll make it up to you when you get back. But this was Captain's orders._

"Is there a reason you disapprove of my relationship with Tom Paris?"

Although it's a question she's been swallowing for months now, B'Elanna doesn't regret the act of lending voice to it. Not even as Janeway's eyes go wide in horror, the engineer's accusation hanging above them, in the very small space of the Flyer.

"Disapprove?" Janeway manages eventually. "I don't disapprove."

For a woman whose job it is to convince powerful foes that she can destroy them in a blink, Janeway's denial registers to Torres as an underwhelming performance.

"Really?" Torres prods, uncharacteristically calm given the fury she can feel whipping within her. "Because after the dust settled with the Srivani last year, you never apologized to Tom. Or me."

"Lieutenant, we were busy- we were all busy. That doesn't mean-"

"And every time Tom and I are due to go off shift at the same time, or have plans during one of the, oh, _three weekly hours _the ship isn't being shot at, you assign him extra duties."

Whatever trace of horror was evident on Janeway's face, it's wiped clean by B'Elanna's last remark, the Captain sitting up straighter in her chair, her eyes grey steel.

"Let me make this clear right now, Lieutenant. Whatever may go on during off-duty hours, the priority of every officer is the safety of ship and crew. I'm sorry if that duty has occasionally compromised your personal life, but my job doesn't involve take your _dating calendar _into account whenever I change the duty roster."

The low, rumbling tone is the kind of thing that would reduce Janeway's other officers to puddles of fear and shame. But the self-righteousness of Janeway's speech, the way she dodges the direct question, only adds to B'Elanna's anger.

"I just have to know," she says, ignoring Janeway's lecture, "is it about _me_, your disapproval? Or is it just about Tom. _Tom_ dating someone."

B'Elanna is hardly the first person to imply a unique relationship between Janeway and her conn officer. But B'Elanna's suggestive tone, the young woman's remarkably open face, leaves no doubt that this isn't akin to Chakotay calling Tom her personal reclamation project.

This is more than that. Much more.

"I'm the Captain," Janeway hisses. "And _as Captain_ I don't have the _luxury_ of romantic relationships with my officers."

It's the farthest thing from a denial. And absolutely the wrong thing to say to B'Elanna Torres.

But it's in the ensuing chaos of shouting and accusation that the atmosphere in which they're hovering changes, just enough.

It's only once they've finally out of stable orbit that either realize what's gone wrong; Janeway back at the helm in a flash, B'Elanna a second behind her. But still, neither of them are Tom when it comes to flying, let alone maneuvering such an unforgiving, powerful, little ship.

They end up careening through the atmosphere in a series of inelegant flips and dives.

. . . . .


	2. II

**II.**

_Seven Hours Earlier_

Sprawled across the floor of the Delta Flyer, B'Elanna Torres is sure of only two things. One is that she's alive. And the other is that either she or Janeway have broken something, given the tell-tale crack of bone she heard when they both hit the floor.

"Lieutenant?" Janeway groans. "Are you alright?"

Standing, slowly, B'Elanna decides that she is. She has a few scrapes and bruises, and her neck aches just a bit. But she judges she's escaped trauma, obvious and otherwise. It's one of the few times she judges it advantageous to be part Klingon.

Janeway, human though and through, doesn't fare as well.

"I think. . . my ankle is broken," Janeway confesses with a grimace, after she's tried- and failed- to stand.

It only takes a minute of examination for B'Elanna to confirm the Captain's thesis. Her ankle is definitely broken, likely a bone in her foot, too.

"We should splint this."

"Let's figure out what we're facing first," Janeway says, nodding to the aft of the Flyer.

And though B'Elanna was quick to offer aid, the younger woman isn't entirely crushed about leaving Janeway to sit in pain. It's not as though she's forgotten her anger, let alone the argument that led to all of this.

The good news is that they managed to land (well, a skilled pilot would take issue with the word_ 'land', _but put down, at any rate) in a field at the base of a small valley, and as they knew ahead of time, the climate and atmosphere are both relatively hospitable.

The bad news is that propulsion systems are offline, along with half a dozen others, making re-entry into space currently impossible.

"We won't know how bad it is until we do a visual inspection," Janeway says, unnecessarily, and now leaning against a bulkhead.

It's clear that the Captain intends to go with Torres, put even more strain on untended injury. But in this, B'Elanna makes no cautionary comment, feels no compelling tide of concern.

"Kahless," B'Elanna mutters, upon exiting the Flyer. Then punctuates the sentiment with a few more curses, for the sake of thoroughness.

To say that the the starboard nacelle is ripped off is understatement. More accurate is that it, and the pylons connecting it, are scattered in a dispersal pattern stretching as far as their eyes can see, making for a sight worthy of one of _Chakotay's _crashes.

It isn't the only structural damage, but it is (thankfully) the worst.

"After we rig an emergency beacon," Janeway sighs, "we need to collect everything we can."

"_We?_" B'Elanna shoots back, looking pointedly at Janeway's ankle. Then spins around, obviously already making to head out. "You work on the beacon, I'll got hunt and fetch."

It isn't dark yet, but the weather isn't going to do them any favors. A thick layer of green-grey clouds is blocking most of the sunlight, and the wind is an impressive speed.

"It looks like it's about to storm," Janeway cautions, "don't head out too far right away."

B'Elanna doesn't acknowledge the warning, doubling her pace instead. But Janeway was raised on the plains, and her Indiana instincts are telling her the weather could get ugly.

"_Lieutenant,_" Janeway says, her impatience pooling with the pain from her throbbing injury. "That's an order."

. . . . .

_Four Hours Earlier_

Janeway's just finishing their distress beacon, using what's left of the deflector to boost the comm signal, when B'Elanna comes into Flyer, hair matted to her skin with sweat.

She'd completely ignored Janeway's order to say close, gathering the farthest and largest debris that she could. But on her second trip the lightning storm started, and on her third the strikes were close enough to scare her, just a little.

"That's a lot of it," Torres says with a nod to the piled debris, then notes with little interest that Janeway has tended to her ankle while alone.

Janeway nods, not bothering to say "good work", not when she knows B'Elanna disobeyed her order. It might be a fight they can't afford to have right now, but that doesn't mean she'll pat the Lieutenant on the back for being insubordinate.

"This is done," the Captain says, more to herself than to B'Elanna, "so I'll see what else I can work on."

At some point they both break into the rations as they work, Torres unfolding herself from under the conn and Janeway pausing her triage on some power relays.

"Do you smell that?" B'Elanna asks, putting down her ration packet.

"What?" Janeway puzzles.

"Something's burning," the engineer replies, and then walks around the cabin to find the source.

Janeway seems to consider following suit, but then decides against it. With or without a broken ankle, she doesn't possess a Klingon sense of smell.

"It doesn't smell like plasma fire," the engineer says, now obviously frustrated. "But I don't have any idea where it's coming from."

It takes a frustratingly long time for Janeway to hoist herself, but when she does, she makes for the Flyer's exit, Torres curious and on her heels.

The sun is setting, so the haze, hanging over the trees off to the far east, isn't all the obvious. But the unmistakable glow there _is_, and standing next to Janeway, Torres lets out a haggard breath.

"Lieutenant, I think we have a problem."

. . . . .

"It's ridiculous to abandon the Flyer when the fire is still that far east of us! We have_ no idea _what direction the wind could push it."

As Torres finishes her last volley, she puts her hands angrily on her hips. It's an acquired trait that would prove a little comical, in context, if either woman were to stop and notice it.

"Once the fire clears the edge of those trees and hits the low vegetation we're sitting in, its speed will nearly double," Janeway maintains. "We don't have time to hope that the wind changes. Especially not when it hasn't changed _once_ in the last four hours."

It's a debate B'Elanna won't win, even as she presses on. Because no matter what arguments either of them make, the Captain has more pips, and that (for reasons B'Elanna will never fully understand) is all that matters in the end.

They do what they can to protect the Flyer before they abandon it.

There isn't really a way for them to salvage the shields in the limited time they have, but they manage to route enough power to polarize the hull. It might not be enough to compensate for all the damage the crash has rendered to the craft's structural integrity, but it should at least buy more time if and when the fire sweeps through.

"If _Voyager'_s close enough to pinpoint the shuttle, they'll be able to pick up our comm badges," Janeway says, perhaps an attempt at comfort.

B'Elanna angrily throws some rations in an away kit, not acknowledging the Captain's words.

"Let's move out," Janeway says with a nod, and it's only at this point that Torres thinks about how best to manage Janeway's ankle.

"It will be faster this way," B'Elanna says, moving to shoulder a good portion of Janeway's weight.

It might not be her heart's _fondest desire_, being this close to Janeway. But it's a good, seven-kilometer trek to the high ground where Janeway wants to set up camp, and the faster they get this damn hike over, the happier B'Elanna will be.

"Thanks," Janeway says awkwardly, now doing her best to keep up stride with the foot that can actually bear weight.

It helps that they're both about the same height and Torres has all that extra strength, but it seems as if the planet is determined to punish them, the wind constantly chapping their faces, and a light rain starting about twenty minutes into their trek.

"Of course," B'Elanna chuckles darkly, her gnarled mane now obscuring her vision. "_Of course_."

The rain won't be enough to stop the wildfire the lightning sparked; the precipitation's too light and the ground beneath them too dry, likely from recent drought.

It's just one more insult to add to the tally of Torres' day, the fact she now looks like a wet targe, joined at the hip with a woman whose own hair remains neatly and inexplicably coiffed, despite a shuttle accident, a bone fracture, and now the rain.

"You never answered my question," B'Elanna says, above the wind, and now blinking moisture out of her eyes. "Is it just that it's Tom. . . Or is it _me_- me that's the problem?"

"B'Elanna, I don't know that this is..." Janeway begins, a frustrated sound finishing the thought.

She knew the younger woman was unlikely to let the topic go entirely, but this is really the _worst _time Torres could have picked. The Captain's frustration at being taken a conversational captive makes it. . . difficult to find her inner diplomat.

"Bad timing," B'Elanna says, clearly not caring. "Maybe, but there won't ever be a good time, will there?"

Janeway's only response is frustrated sigh as she limps forward, almost (but not quite) pulling away from the body shouldering her weight.

"Just say what you need to say," Torres presses, her tone commanding, the definition of insubordinate.

"You bring out the worst in each other," Janeway erupts, her voice surpassing the now howling wind. "You scuffle and bicker constantly, _make up only to do it over again_. I've never seen two people fight so much in my entire life- and it's Tom's nature to make almost everyone warm to him!"

It's not the admission B'Elanna was looking for, although Janeway is, in a manner, answering her question. It also isn't the kind of thing she expected Janeway to lead with, and feeling a new wave of insecurity, she thinks for the first time that maybe she should have backed off on this, in the many instances in which she had the chance.

"Don't you ever get tired of being angry at him?" Janeway demands. "Doesn't Tom ever get sick of being wrong all the time?"

"I don't. . . You don't _know _our relationship," B'Elanna shouts, to drown out whatever Janeway may say next.

But it's too late, the damage is done. Nothing that can be said now that will blot out the words that pinpointed, rather spectacularly, one of B'Elanna's deepest fears.

_Doesn't Tom ever get sick of being wrong all the time?_

"Maybe I don't," Janeway acknowledges, her fatigue as obvious as her anger. "But there has to be more to life than fighting with the person who's supposed to be your partner."

When B'Elanna stops, her whole body tensing, Janeway expects (correctly) that the Lieutenant wants to dislodge the added weight from her shoulder, throw the injured woman to the ground.

The Lieutenant doesn't, barreling forward instead, now with increased speed.

"Let's just get this over with," Torres hisses, and Janeway gives a nod.

They still have most of the journey ahead of them, and the last part is all uphill.

. . . . .


	3. III

**III. **

_Present_

"Where to now, _Captain_?" Torres asks peevishly, arms across her chest.

The engineer is, of course, relieved that_ Voyager'_s newest shuttle won't be incurring substantial fire damage. But isn't as if she's going to let the little fact that Janeway was wrong slip through the cracks.

"You were right the first time," Janeway concedes, if with poorly concealed frustration. "No sense trying to stay ahead of the fire when it could still shift again. . . We'll wait it out to see how close it gets, now that the rainfall has slowed its progress. "

To this admission, B'Elanna has no immediate response. Occupies herself instead with arranging and rearranging their collective gear. Anything, really, but continuing a conversation with her present companion.

They'd managed to make to their current location in about an hour, despite the rain that initially slowed them. It helped, of course, that B'Elanna was angry enough to take out six Nausicaans, but forced by circumstances to divert that energy into the task of half-carrying, half-dragging Janeway up the crest they've set up camp atop of.

She's spent the last two hours silently brooding. Brooding, and trying to decide how she's going to explain all of this to Tom, when they get back.

_I finally said something to Janeway about her having the hots for you–_

_I wasn't _trying_ to destroy the Flyer, Tom. I just wanted to know if her there's a reason Janeway's been such an unmitigated b–_

The explanations grow more and more colorful, as B'Elanna's disquiet mounts. Though her initial anger still seems completely reasonable, she can't find any handy summary that escapes sounding a bit ridiculous.

Worse, when she runs the conversation over in her head, she can hear her lover's voice clearly, and always, it's defending Janeway.

"We should sleep," Janeway's voice interrupts. "You rest first. I'll take the first shift of fire observation."

B'Elanna nods into the darkness, finding a spot that's at least half comfortable against a tree. But she doesn't sleep, can't even keep her eyes closed. Not with this thing hanging over her.

She doesn't mean to stare at Janeway. But the direction she has to turn her face to avoid the wind puts the other woman in the center of her vision, and it isn't as if there's a lot to look at, moonlight having rendered the clearing they're in a collection of scattered shadows.

She can't see Janeway's face. The older woman is turned the other direction, for one, and even then it's too dark. But B'Elanna can just make out the slope of her shoulders and silhouette of her trunk; the way she holds herself perfectly upright, despite her surroundings and the broken ankle that must be throbbing like hell.

In another time and place, it might inspire B'Elanna's admiration. More complicated thoughts about honor, women warriors. The nature of courage.

"Why does it matter what I think? Whether or not I approve?"

Torres doesn't know whether Janeway has simply assumed she was awake, or else felt herself being watched.

B'Elanna guesses it's the latter. Janeway's knack for picking up on tiny things can be one of her more. . . challenging traits.

"Why does it matter to you?" Janeway repeats. "Why do you care what I think of your relationship with Tom?"

It's a question B'Elanna can answer any number of ways. And one, the Lieutenant notes darkly, that somewhat sidesteps the issue of the Captain's own feelings for the pilot in question.

Perhaps Janeway anticipates the inner debate B'Elanna is waging. Or perhaps she knows the dodge she would use in the engineer's place. Either way, she sighs, B'Elanna watching as the Captain's shoulders hunch in a bit.

"Don't tell me it's because I'm 'the Captain'. . . That's not the kind of thing that matters to you, the way it does Harry, some of the others."

"But it matters to Tom," the engineer responds reflexively, wincing as soon as the words are out of her mouth.

"Oh?"

B'Elanna closes her eyes at the prompt, grateful when complete darkness replaces Janeway's silhouette.

She doesn't particularly want to go into how many nights she's curled in bed next to Tom, feeling him toss and turn after Janeway looked at him wrong, or uttered even a slightly disapproving phrase in his direction. But it's either that or admit to the knot she gets in her stomach whenever she sees Tom and Janeway together, the complete synchronicity that exists between them, whether in a crisis or just bantering in Sandrine's.

B'Elanna's convinced it's partly the 'Fleet brats thing, the pedigree that goes with it. It's something Tom's tried to run from and yet still informs who he is, the ease with which he carries himself. It stands out the second you put him next to Janeway; the two of them always looking like they belong, no matter where they are.

It's also something that never fails to make B'Elanna feel like an outsider: awkward and out of place, like she's back in her first year at Starfleet Academy, standing next to polished cadets who were groomed for greatness starting at birth.

"You'll always be the one who saved him from prison," B'Elanna says, choosing the less personal explanation. "He cares about what you think of him. He wants your respect."

"Tom saved himself. And he has my respect." Janeway adds, briefly turning her face in B'Elanna's direction, "so do you . . . for whatever that's worth."

It's worth a great deal, in fact. More than B'Elanna will be able to realize, until time and hurt feelings have passed.

"You might not think we're good for one another," B'Elanna sighs, her voice sounding thready and even a bit desperate to her own ears, "but I do love him. And we're trying_ our very best _ to make each other happy. . . Is that so wrong, so difficult to understand?"

In the silence, B'Elanna anticipates any number of remarks highlighting the many failures of her romantic relationship, not the least painful among being the one Janeway hit on a few hours earlier.

She's puzzled when Janeway gives a chuckle, dry but not quite mirthless.

"Love is something that remains rare, no matter how many quadrants you poke around in. I've found it a few times. Lost it, too – but, B'Elanna, even in the losing, I've never found love to be wrong."

It's an olive branch the younger woman accepts in careful silence. Wary of the delicate admission that might flutter out from under its leaves.

. . . . .

"_Chakotay to Janeway. Chakotay to Torres. Do you read?" _

"You have impeccable timing, Commander," Janeway says, and B'Elanna can't help but smile a little. "The Lieutenant and I are alright, although I do hope you're in transporter range."

The fire is close enough to be a real threat at this point, and the weary and battered twosome had just begun to head out again when their commbadges chirped.

"_We are," _Chakotay says, and now the women can hear the XO's obvious relief._ "Once we have you on board, we'll work on beaming aboard the Flyer." _

There isn't even a trace of smugness in this last part, but B'Elanna still gives Janeway a knowing look. The old man must be over the moon that someone else was the first to crash the shiny, new shuttle.

They know that neither of them will ever live it down. To say nothing of how they're going to explain the cause of the crash in a report.

They don't exactly have time to dwell on it, as a second later they're in the transporter cycle, B'Elanna having been just about to note the Captain's injury. Tuvok, Harry, and Tom are all in the transporter room when the two materialize, their greetings interrupted once the ship's pilot-turned-medic notices Janeway's disfigured ankle.

"Why didn't you mention you were hurt?" Tom asks, stopping just short of his lover when he notices Janeway's injury.

The depth of his concern even keeps him from whining about the Delta Flyer.

"It's nothing serious," Janeway dismisses, averting her gaze when Tom finally manages to hug B'Elanna. "I'm sure the Doctor's lecture will be far more painful than the injury itself."

"Do you want me to go with you to Sickbay? If it's only a break, I can treat you myself. Spare you the Doc's _highly articulated_ thoughts regarding needless risks on away missions."

Tom's arm is still around B'Elanna when he speaks the offer, and Janeway watches as her engineer smooths away signs of disappointment and frustration.

Tom is likely on duty again in a few hours, and if Janeway accepts his help (as she normally would), any time the couple might have together will be eaten up by Tom playing Captain's physician.

"It's been quite a while since I was treated to one of those lectures," Janeway declines diplomatically. Then adds, in a rueful tone only Torres understands, "maybe I deserve a lashing about the ears, this time."

It's no surprise when Janeway waves off Harry and Tuvok's offers of assistance. Now that's she's back on her own ship, she'd rather hobble under her own power, even if this means it takes her twice as long to get to Sickbay.

"Still up for that dinner?" Tom asks B'Elanna, once they're in the corridor.

"I think it's technically breakfast now," B'Elanna responds. Then cringes when she gets a look at her own reflection in the glare of a console.

"I believe you know how I feel about _breakfast_," Tom smirks, his hand lingering on her hip.

Janeway is ahead of them in the corridor. Not close enough to be obtrusive, but well within earshot.

B'Elanna glances in her direction, but Janeway doesn't even look back at them. Just keeps moving forward as if she didn't hear them, her single-minded determination dominating her pain.

"I do love breakfast," B'Elanna says, now smiling and pulling Tom forward a little with her hand.

"Most important meal of the day," Tom smirks, waggling his eyebrows, and his lover is hard-pressed not to laugh.

"I'm sorry we crashed the Delta Flyer," B'Elanna says, snuggling against him in the turbolift. Tom only shrugs, the muscles of his back expanding under her palm and splayed out fingers.

"There are more important things than shuttles" Tom says solemnly, and B'Elanna soaks in the vibrations of his chest as he speaks. Nuzzles the hand that combs through her matted mane of hair, which (she knows from experience) even the sonic shower will have difficulty taming.

"Things that are far rarer than any borg-modified alloy," B'Elanna murmurs.

Tom lifts an eyebrow at this, but B'Elanna doesn't elaborate. Just tucks her face into his chest for the rest of what is, all things considered, a relatively short ride.

* * *

_For S and C: a rarity of thirty-odd years._


End file.
